Introspection
by LunaEquus
Summary: Sometimes you have to break down to find yourself. Prose. Kartik thinking about Gemma. Oneshot.


**I have had this kicking around for a long time and I've always wanted to post it, but wasn't sure if it was too prose-y or not. It's sort of abstract, which I think compliments Kartik's personality, especially at this stage in the book's events. This takes place as he receives Gemma's gift of the cricket bat. It intentionally starts off really..._abstract_ as he breaks himself down, then it commences bluntly as he makes his little discovery. I'm not sure how awkward it will seem to others, so please give me feedback! Enjoy!**

What sort of possibility can a newspaper unwrap?

I know the cricket bat was hers. Was it just a bribe? It gleams innocently in red and gold, colors not always associated with wood. Or perhaps it is just because I see her hair, shining in the light. Sun, moon, fire – catch her every surface like a prism, throwing about rainbows I wish to chase. I cannot hope to catch them; my arms are filled with the burden of obedience and obligation.

Perhaps I set down my load for a bit, send crab apples soaring to a better place so that we can be alone. Her eyes refract, I become blinded. Perhaps it is better that way, sightlessly appreciating what I cannot have, should not want. I close my eyes to her, but does the spell become undone?

Roses drift upon an autumn breeze, the scent of all things lovely, delicate, innocent. Loose curls and white dresses. She is but a china cup in a tavern, close to shattering. Can I catch her before she's knocked off the table? Thorns _are _a part of the bloom; they sting when I bend to pick up her pieces. So my mind has run away with me, for she has not yet fallen. I may reach her just yet.

My fingers are cut and bloodied, rendered numb by injury. I delved too far into the rose bush, so I must keep my hands to myself. Perhaps if I had my sight, I'd not have made that mistake. The wind changes its path, teasing me, taunting me, with the roses that will never die. Petals bruise to make her smell that much sweeter. I must block all scents so that I can be purged of her.

I rest against a tree, blinded, numb, and incapable of detecting even the most pungent fragrance. Perhaps now I can have my peace. Alas, no, it may be a dim world but a loud one. All around me, dead leaves and wind chorus the music of the seasons. It is a symphony of sounds – a wagon wheel creaking, a black and white Vanner snorting softly, the distant voices of school girls at play. Perhaps my trained ears can discern a single voice. I only hear her as I had last, jaded, loaded, and heavily burdened by the choices of others. To see her that way, no, I cannot see. To hear her that way makes me hope to be deaf.

There.

It is a silent, solitary world when you have no means to tell up from down, light from dark, hot from cold. A relief, a freedom, to be rid of these burdensome things called _feelings._ But there is something wrong. A flaw in my sheltered cocoon. With eyes closed and senses blocked I am more susceptible to memory, imagination. I've one sense left.

I can taste her. Weeks have passed since our kiss, a stolen moment of … of what? She kissed me to save herself. I kissed her to taste her, and that is just what I did. My tongue still recalls the feel of her lips, and the taboo spot just beyond them. She did not taste sweet, nor was she bitter, spicy, nor sour. She tasted like a subtle brand of _something_, delicious in its own right, but unlike anything else I've ever had. Even now, I savor her.

I would cut off my tongue if I had to. Nothing more to taste, nothing more to say to her. I am deaf, blind, mute, numb, and cannot smell a thing. Yet still she lingers, dancing on the frays of my mind. Is there no way to rid my person of her? Is there some sixth sense that binds her to me? Perhaps it is like they say when someone truly becomes a part of you, it is impossible to cut them out.

I am mindless, senseless, mad. I am no longer who I once was.

The autumn sun beats down on my face. I feel the warmth on my skin, the cold ground beneath me. A crisp breeze rustles through the forest; it smells of earth and the coming winter. I can taste the changing season, the distant chill of winter. My eyes spring open and I'm met with the rich colors of fall, reds and golds against a pale blue sky. I'm struck with the thought of a golden red curl falling free of its binding, resting against a blue silken shoulder, pale fingers quickly trying to put it back where it belongs.

I take a deep breath. I hear the branches creak, the distant laughter. I feel the sun, the wind. I smell the roses, the Gypsies' campfire. I see a deer streaking behind the trees, a flash of white and blue and golden red dashing after it. I still taste her. My senses have returned, and I am complete again.

I lift the beautiful cricket bat and watch it shine in the sunlight. She's with me, even when she isn't. I am no longer who I once was.

I am better.

**And there you have it. I personally like it. It's not my favorite, but I like some of my descriptions. Tell me what YOU think!**

**We all taste our subtle brand of _something_,  
LunaEquus**

**Reviews keep my eyebrows from growing together and blinding me as I have not had a proper waxing in over a month.**


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